


Cute Aggression

by MerlinLikeTheBird



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cute, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Light BDSM, M/M, Meet-Cute, Nothing of Value Found Here, Pure Sugar, very light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25710703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerlinLikeTheBird/pseuds/MerlinLikeTheBird
Summary: Arthur hasn't been a schoolyard bully for years, but sometimes he still gets the urge to pull some pigtails.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon, Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 259





	Cute Aggression

**Author's Note:**

> Cute aggression is a superficially aggressive behaviour caused by seeing something cute, such as a human baby or young animal. People experiencing cute aggression may grit their teeth, clench their fists, or feel the urge to pinch and squeeze something they consider cute, while not actually causing or intending to cause any harm.

He has the boniest wrists Arthur has ever seen.

His long legs were tucked under the wooden chair, crossed in a way that seemed impossibly uncomfortable, hunched over the tiny table, book in hand, biting his thumbnail. His lips were a shiny, ruddy pink. Whatever he was reading must be very interesting, because this is the second time Arthur has asked if the other chair was free. Wide blue eyes didn’t lift from the page once, and Arthur sat down - there was nowhere else open, after all, and he had _tried_ to be polite.

He methodically pushed the man’s mug of tea out of his way, followed by his empty plate of cake crumbs, and the stack of books, and each individual pencil one at a time, making a point.

“Cheers,” Arthur said dryly.

He still didn’t look up, the dark fans of his eyelashes fluttering as he read. _Cute_.

Arthur set his excellent coffee down, then his adequate sandwich, and finally sat himself down as well. His table-mate gasped, and Arthur blinked and waited for him to say something, but he merely flipped to the next page, pale fingers gripping the book so tightly they were white knuckled. Fine, it’s not like Arthur wanted to have awkward lunchtime conversation about the rain anyway. It’s not like he minded being ignored. Of course not, that would be very immature of him, and Arthur is a grown human, an adult, with a job and a very nice flat filled with expensive things.

He can’t quite stop his eyes from roaming over the lanky man again however. He’s wearing a soft looking jumper even though it’s nearly summertime, a little fox embroidered over the left breast, twee in a way that makes Arthur wonder if it was rescued from a bin or if it came from a shop too underground and fashionable for him to even know about. His dark hair had enough wave to it that it curled over his frankly ridiculous ears, and as Arthur examined their exact shade of pink he found himself entering a frame of thought that he assumed he had left behind years ago.

He wanted to tug on those ears, wanted to _make_ him pay attention. _Look at me_ , his mind cried out, demanding. He’d gotten over the pigtail pulling a little late in life, he knew, a schoolyard bully to those he liked, through and through. He rather thought he had gotten over it though.

Just too _cute_. Ugh.

Awful. Terrible.

He focused on his lunch instead, listening to the din of the cafe and the street noise mixing with the rain. It was warm enough to make it muggy and damp, and he wished he could take his tie off, or at least his suit jacket. He had managed to distract himself until his neighbor uncrossed his legs, and their feet brushed under the table. He was wearing brown boots, the laces tied into little bows that Arthur knew intellectually were no different than any other bows - yet he found himself desperately wanting to tie the laces together. Or maybe just start screaming, right here in the cafe, or perhaps throw his very expensive bag through the shop window and into traffic, all equally sane ideas.

He let go of his book long enough to take a blind drink from Arthur’s mug instead of his own, only to scrunch up his face something terrible, dropping his novel entirely in his abject misery. Something amused and delighted uncurled in Arthur’s belly at the sight.

“ _Poison,_ ” He complained, sputtering and coughing, eyes watering. “ _Why?_ ”

“That’s mine,” Arthur said mildly. Blue eyes with damp eyelashes blinked at him in betrayal, and Arthur wants to pinch his stupid cheeks with both hands and shake. They are red from his coughing fit, and his nose is running a little, and there is _something deeply wrong with Arthur why is he like this._

“Oh, I’m sorry - should I buy you a new one? I should buy you a new one.” He says, but doesn’t get up, blinking vapidly. “What was it? Are you sure you got the right drink? Only it’s not very good.”

“I happen to think it is very good, actually, and since it’s my coffee I think that’s the only opinion that matters here.”

“But you don’t _really_ like that, do you?” He looks at Arthur with open disbelief, and he feels his foolish competitive nature waking up. He takes the mug and without breaking eye contact drains it to the last drop like a shot, unblinking at the bitterness. Truth be told it’s a bit much, this is meant to be sipped slowly and on top of that it’s _hot_ , but it’s worth it when the other man grows increasingly horrified with each gulp. He doesn’t think about how he never shares utensils or cups, not with anyone, finding it easy to overcome for this feeling of triumphant victory.

“Aaah,” he exaggerates, licking his thumb where he caught a drop, “delicious.”

“Liar,” the other fellow says, and Arthur kicks at him under the table with his shiny shoes like he’s never left secondary school, but he’s dodged expertly. “I’m not buying you another one,” he laughs brightly.

His grin is the cutest thing that Arthur has ever seen, nearly splitting his face. He’s got neat white teeth, and he probably hasn’t worn a retainer at night for the past six years like Arthur has. It crinkles his eyes into little happy crescents, and Arthur feels overheated, like maybe he should have taken his jacket off earlier. Cute, cute, cute.

His name is Merlin, and Arthur lingers far past when he should have left to return to his dull office. When he leaves Merlin tells him that he’ll be there next Thursday, if Arthur wants to try and kick him again.

Arthur does.

He’s just as cute next Thursday, wearing a scarf even though it’s a week closer to summer. It has little birds on it, and it looks screen printed, or hand made, or something artisan like that, and Arthur wants to flip it into his smiling face. Or maybe he’d like to hold it above his head and make Merlin jump for it, to press the length of his whole body against him as he does.

The Thursday after that he’s in a drapey sort of blue shirt that makes him seem even leaner than before, with the sleeves rolled up so Arthur can see every bit of his flawless forearms. He wants to bite them. The blue sets off his eyes so much that Arthur has to clench his jaw for a whole half minute before he can say hello. There is a coffee waiting next to his mug of tea so he gets to skip the queue, and Merlin’s slim fingers play with his little cake fork as he prattles on about a film he saw. His fingertips and his knuckles are a delicate shell pink. _Cute_.

“We could go see a film,” Arthur interrupts, and when Merlin flushes, pleased, that’s cute too.

He steels himself to see some horrible romcom, or something slow and sad and indie. He makes assumptions because of the scarf, maybe. It turns out Merlin wants to see a truly grotesque horror movie, and each time he nearly jumps out of his seat and makes tiny little ‘ _eep’_ noises Arthur loses the plot entirely.

Of the movie, and quite possibly of his whole life.

The Thursday after that Arthur has had enough of adequate sandwiches for lunch and bullies Merlin into trying something new. “There’s a noodle bar kind of thing a street over, they do cold soba, and it’s so hot now - let’s go.” He pokes at Merlin’s side, herding him away from the door of the familiar cafe like a sheepdog.

“I’m not very good with chopsticks,” he’s warned, “too clumsy.”

And he is terrible. It shouldn’t be cute at all, that’s for sure, watching him barely manage, soba escaping him more than making it to his mouth. He’s clearly a little embarrassed about it, but he tries his best, and that might be the cutest thing yet. That’s when Arthur realises his problem might be a little bit bigger than he had thought.

They go to the Tate Britain on Saturday. Merlin claims it’s just for the air conditioning, but his eyes well up with shimmering tears when he stands in front of _Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose_. The golden glow of the lanterns makes his heart feel just like fresh summer, like sweet long grass and childhood. Arthur swallows thickly as he dares to take Merlin’s hand in his. He holds it loosely and gently, and hidden in his pocket his other hand is a tight fist. _Cute._

It’s not Merlin’s fault that Arthur wants to take his twee scarves and tie him to his bed, and it’s not his fault that when he looks at Arthur with those soft dewy eyes it makes him want to kiss him with his teeth.

But he does.

They see each other every Thursday, and most weekends, and Arthur is fairly certain they are dating, although it is not like any dating he’s done up until now. He wouldn’t go feed ducks with just anyone after all - especially since it leads to their biggest fight.

“It’s not bad for ducks!” Arthur wields a baguette like a sword, pointing it right under Merlin’s chin. “It’s bread!”

“It is!” Merlin hisses at him passionately, holding a bag of frozen peas and looking like he was about to bring it down on Arthur’s head right there in the Waitrose. _Cute_.

They look it up, huddled over Merlin’s battered phone, and it turns out _too_ _much_ bread is bad for ducks, so really they are both right. Or both wrong, depending on how you want to look at it. They feed the ducks in rigid silence, holding hands furiously and not looking at each other at all.

“I should have brought Cavall,” Arthur says.

“Who’s Cavall?” Merlin grumbles.

“My dog,” he answers, getting out his phone to show a photo.

“You have _a dog?!_ ” Merlin shouts at volume, and scares all the ducks into flight. He shrieks and yelps as one flies close enough to them to brush his face with its wing, causing him to drop the peas, scattering them everywhere. The ensuing swarm of ducks traumatises them both, but Arthur smugly maintains he endured it with far more dignity than Merlin had. His dark hair is warm from the summer sun when Arthur pushes his hand through it, gentle with the curls as Merlin hides his face from the ducks. He doesn’t tug on it at all, even though he wants to.

They leave before any judgmental mums can embarrass them more than they already are.

Cavall wiggles his entire back half when Arthur brings him a new friend. He’s a speckled mix of no one knows what other than some sort of collie, and the best running companion in the world. He’s polite, so he doesn’t jump when Merlin comes in, but it’s a near thing, doing his tappy toes dance while the both of them are practically vibrating with joy.

Merlin laughs like a maniac when he lays right on the floor of Arthur’s entryway and Cavall crawls all over him, and Arthur thinks this is it, he’s doomed. He wants this so badly he’ll die of it. He pulls Merlin’s boots off when he won’t get up, and his socks don’t match - one has little ice cream cones on it and the other has colorful cereal bowls and Arthur has to close his eyes and count to ten.

He eventually gets Merlin to the couch instead of the floor, Cavall glued to his legs as he does, waiting nicely to be invited up before he joins them. He puts a show on that neither of them watch, and after not watching two whole episodes they walk Cavall together and turn it into a dual purpose when they pick up some takeaway.

Merlin doesn’t ask if he should leave and Arthur doesn’t suggest it, and he feels heavy with promise.

Merlin sings when he washes the dishes even though the dishwasher is _right there, Merlin_ , and Arthur might scream for real this time. _Too_ _cute_. He can’t stand it for even an instant longer. The suds are slippery where he grabs Merlin’s wrists and pulls, and the marble must be painful where Arthur bends him back over the counter, but Merlin kisses him back like he’s been starving for it just as long.

He’s out of breath as though he’s run half a marathon, and he feels desperate and dizzy in a way he’s unfamiliar with, panting into Merlin’s mouth. Any finesse he’s ever had in his life is abandoning him. He finds himself confessing all his sins into Merlin’s collarbones as he bites at them, tugging at his shirt.

“ _Sweetheart_ , I can’t stand it, wanted to do this for ages - want to bite you, hold you down. Want to take your stupid little scarves and tie you up with them, pin you to my bed, never let you leave,” a litany of secrets he hadn’t meant to share tumble out of him, but it’s too late to keep them now. He watches the red creep in where he’s left his marks along Merlin’s pale neck where his scarf might lay, but he hopes not tomorrow - tomorrow he’d quite like to see those marks in full bloom. Merlin rakes his nails down Arthur’s back while the blond lifts him with every intent to take him to bed, luxuriating in the feel of Merlin’s skinny legs locking around his waist, of finding home in the vee of his hips.

“You could use one of your awful ties,” Merlin suggests. “I hate them-I always have-I want to _ruin_ them,” he says between feverish kisses. And that’s a brilliant idea, and it’s even more so when Merlin is squirming against Arthur’s sheets, helpless and gasping. Arthur doesn’t pull off of him until he’s wet and sticky, tearful and begging, and he’d feel like the worst sort of bully if Merlin wasn’t looking at him like he’d hung the moon and stars just for him.

Later he massages Merlin’s wrists where they are a little red, and he peppers tiny kisses along the blue veins. They brush their teeth side by side, and afterwords Arthur puts in his retainer even though he usually has a very strict policy about no one seeing it. He beams at Merlin while he bites his lip and scrunches up his face trying not to laugh, grinning to show it off while he flexes and sways his hips.

“You like that?” Arthur asks, a tiny whistle escaping him on the ‘that’, and Merlin is bent double trying to hold in his laughter, flapping his hands uselessly in front of his face.

“Stop it, stop it, no I’ll die!” He’s gasping, and Arthur chases him back to the bed, flops down and pins Merlin onto the mussed sheets, feeling very pleased with himself. Merlin wiggles out from underneath him with a sigh, still giggling. _Cute_ , Arthur thinks for the millionth time.

There is only a little bit of light coming in through the curtains, and he can barely make out Merlin’s smile when he rolls over to look at him. He feels it when Merlin runs his finger down the bridge of his roman nose though, taps his lips until Arthur smiles back at him. “Cute,” Merlin whispers so lowly he can barely hear it, sharing a secret in the dark of the room, “Arthur, Arthur, you’re too cute.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this far - any feedback is super welcome of course!


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